The grand hall echoed with the sound of pen against paper. Nothing else. No whispers, no rustling — only the scratch-scratch of ink crawling over test sheets, like winter itself had taken root in the air, heavy and absolute.
The poetry exam was final.
The practicals had ended the week prior — spoken recitations, analysis in front of professors who barely blinked. Now, seated in their individual desks with tall partitions of polished oak around them, the students were left to their thoughts and their trembling hands.
Andrew sat near the far end, window-side. The light poured in faintly, kissing the edges of his paper as he wrote with meticulous ease. The words flowed. Sonnets and metaphors, cadence and heartbreak — they came without friction.
It was not passion that moved his hand.
It was distance.
Emma sat three rows away, her head bowed. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain. He didn't look at her. Not once. But her presence hummed at the edges of his thoughts.
Kate was directly behind him, eyes narrowed in focus. She tapped her pen once before continuing to scribble a quiet piece on the ache of loss. She could've sworn she heard Andrew sigh once — barely audible — then return to writing.
The hours slipped away, and when the final bell rang, the room exhaled collectively, shoulders easing, tension dissolving like mist.
Andrew stood quickly, gathering his things.
It was time to go.
---
He was already halfway through packing his duffel in his dorm room when Kate knocked.
"You're really heading home the same day?" she asked, stepping in without waiting.
Andrew nodded. "Trains are clearest in the evening."
Kate shifted awkwardly, glancing at his half-zipped bag.
"My parents are expecting me too," she said. "I was wondering… would you want to come over for a few days? Just to unwind before traveling again. We've both earned a break."
Andrew hesitated.
Kate gave him a small smile. "They'd love to meet you. My dad's a bit of a legend, you know. Dr. Thomas Wimberly — orthopedic surgeon. But don't worry, he's only intimidating when he's holding a scalpel."
He chuckled softly. "You sure it's okay?"
"Positive."
And just like that, the train ticket remained unused.
---
Kate's home stood on the outer edge of the city, a stately old manor dressed in ivy and framed by black iron fences. It was the kind of place where every picture frame told a hundred-year story and the scent of old books lingered in the halls.
Her mother, a graceful woman with silvery hair and kind eyes, greeted Andrew at the door with a warm hug and a tray of lemon biscuits.
"You're the boy Kate always mumbles about," she said knowingly.
Kate flushed. "Mum."
Dr. Wimberly was taller than Andrew expected, with a deep voice and an unshakable calm. He didn't ask many questions, just observed — sharp-eyed and thoughtful.
Dinner was lamb stew and roasted potatoes by the fireplace.
Andrew was quiet at first, but Kate's younger brother — a boy of about twelve — launched into a speech about his favorite poets ("Dante is cool but Rimbaud's wild") and soon everyone was laughing.
The warmth was… real.
It felt like a memory Andrew had never lived.
---
Later that night, after the family had gone to bed and Kate showed him the guest room, they sat together by the window in the hall with mugs of tea.
She was telling him about her dog that once ate an entire packet of charcoal pencils when her phone lit up with a new message.
She frowned.
"What is it?" Andrew asked.
Kate hesitated.
"It's… nothing."
He looked at her.
She sighed. "It's from a classmate. Emma and Jason apparently went to his place this holiday. His family estate. It's been all over their story."
Andrew was still.
The mug in his hand remained poised. No tremble, no twitch.
His face didn't move.
But inside — something folded in.
He had always dreamed of taking Emma home. Letting her meet his mother. Letting her sit in his father's study, flipping through old books and smiling at the dust and the stories.
But she had chosen someone else's home.
Kate watched him closely. She knew.
So she smiled lightly and said, "Well, I'm just glad we didn't end up in a haunted inn or something. My family? Delightfully boring."
Andrew snorted. "That's generous."
She grinned. "Oh, I can be generous. Want to hear my favorite knock-knock joke about Nietzsche?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm scared."
She launched into it anyway, and by the end, he was laughing.
A tired, real laugh.
Not because the joke was funny.
But because Kate was trying.
Because in that quiet house, with dry humor and tea and a girl who wanted nothing more than to be beside him, Andrew felt — not healed — but less broken.
And that was enough for now.